All in good time, p.7
All in Good Time, page 7
She scraped her plate, wiped the last of the gravy with a section of biscuit, sat back, and belched comfortably. She brought her gaze to roam around the house, the perfection of the sturdy rooms, the comfort and orderliness of her home. A quick appreciation for the inheritance from her parents arose, the realization she was well to do for a single girl, able to run the horse farm efficiently—although she did hire a boy from time to time.
She wondered how far Oba would go with that artificial leg. It was a cumbersome thing, would take days of patience and determination, and she was unsure whether he had enough of either one. He was just so weak. So uncaring about building his strength, not even caring enough to get out in the world to try to acquaint himself with anyone or anything. If he kept this up, he’d turn into a babbling recluse.
AND SO SHE found herself at May’s door. She blew in with the cold air, the scent of horses clinging like a second skin, her red scarf untied, hanging around her neck, the red skirt billowing around her ankles.
She surprised the family, who had just finished the noon meal and were seated around the table drinking hot cups of peppermint tea. There was a half-eaten apple pie at Oba’s elbow.
“Sorry. Forgot to knock,” Clara called out.
“Don’t worry about knocking, Clara,” May laughed, her face glowing with appreciation at the sight of her.
“There’s apple pie left,” Andy said, gesturing toward the dessert.
Oba wondered why there were never formal greetings when she arrived. He’d never met anyone with worse manners, and yet she had told him he was rude. As usual, his skin prickled at the sight of her; he wished her gone. Instead, she slid on the bench beside Eli, put an arm around his shoulders, then asked how school was going, before reaching for the girls.
May hurried to the stove for tea, smiling at the obvious affection Clara displayed for the children. Andy handed over the pie, grinning broadly, then asked if she’d be able to help May with the packing.
“What for?”
“We’re moving before the winter sets in. Dat is ready to let go of the farm.”
Clara put two fingers to her mouth, said “Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, who’s going to milk all those cows?”
“I am!” Eli shouted.
“And me!” Lizzie echoed.
Clara laughed. “It’s a lot of work, for the amount of help you have.” She looked directly at Oba. “You better get your act together with that prosthesis. Andy’s going to need another man, you know.”
Oba ignored her.
“Did you hear what I said?”
May looked steadily at her plate, cringing inwardly. She thought surely Clara would learn to back down. It was so apparent that Oba did not want to give her the information she wanted. He was hurting, had always been, and if he had no one to protect him, well . . .
Clara went on as if he had given her an answer.
“You know, I heard of a man who walks so well with his wooden leg, no one can tell he’s wearing one. You should find someone who has been through what you have. You know, it’s always a help to hear of another’s experience.”
Oba got to his foot, reached for his crutches.
“I see you’re not always dependent on the wheelchair anymore, which is a good thing.”
Oba swung himself out of the room without looking back.
May was upset, but it was not in her nature to be confrontational, so she looked at Clara, gave her a weak smile, and shrugged. “He’s hurting, Clara. He’s not like other people.”
Clara gave her a long steady look, an unwavering accusation without disguise. “May, I told you before. You can’t protect him from the blows of life.”
“But . . .”
“No. I’m sorry, but you’re part of the problem.”
Andy did not appreciate Clara’s harsh manner with his beloved wife, whom he knew shrank from all forms of adversity. “Clara . . .”
“I know. You don’t want to hear what I have to say. Do you want help for your brother, or don’t you? There is only one way to help him, and that is giving him the push he needs. If he doesn’t want it, well, he’s going to get it anyway.”
“But Clara, I’m afraid your way is not right in this case.”
“It is. Trust me.”
SHE WAS THERE, washing dishes, packing cardboard boxes, singing, talking, a bright presence that filled the house with vitality. May worked alongside her friend, exclaimed with her about the amount of worldly goods they had accumulated over the short span of years.
Clara lifted a stack of linens from a drawer in the bathroom, counted the sheets and pillowcases, then yelled down the hallway, where May was packing things in the children’s room.
“Seven sets of sheets!”
“Oh yes. We were given so many wedding gifts. I know.”
“That is amazing. The kindness of our people.”
May chose to remain silent, the distance between them an obstacle. But also, she intended to keep from Clara the resentment that was slowly growing in her heart. The truth was that not everyone in the community was kind. The situation at school had been tamped down, but the slow burn continued unchecked, with sunny Eli arriving home from school with a quiet face, chewing his nails till they were mere stumps.
No amount of inquiries made a difference, with Eli shaking his head, saying no, no, everything was fine. But she knew everything was not fine.
In church on Sunday, she had witnessed a sad spectacle, that of old Mommy Hettie, handing out the pink mint candy to a crowd of children but turning away from Eli, who eagerly waited his turn. When he saw there would be none for him, he turned away, the smile erased, his dark eyes shadowed with rejection. Hettie watched him go, her lips pursed, her old eyes glittering with righteous refusal. And an arrow of pain had become embedded in May’s heart. To Hettie, this child was cursed, a spawn of the devil, conceived in sin and tainted with it for the duration of his life.
Oh, she knew. May knew, no matter how hard some tried to hide it, the disgust would crop up from time to time, raise its ugly head, reach out with long fingers and draw her into its horrible embrace.
Yes, she tried to understand, reasoned with her own take on Hettie’s attitude. She had been born and raised into this way of thinking, so there was nothing May could do or say to change it, but why must she take out her lack of understanding or forgiveness on poor Eli?
It wasn’t his fault.
So Eli often found himself on the outskirts of the group of children in church, waiting hesitantly as white-haired, kindly grandfathers, their eyes twinkling with delight, would tell a story to the children, then hand out a gum drop or the ever-present pink lozenges.
As children do, he would forget, his sunny disposition returning as regularly as the morning light, which May felt was an undeserved blessing, this precious child rising above his circumstances.
She never told Andy or Clara, but kept the incidents in her heart, for the Lord to take away. He had been faithful in her life, had redeemed her by His grace, so could she do any less to those who trespassed against her? She loved the Lord Jesus, the beginning and ending of her faith, and lived her days in the realm of His blessing, aware of the fact that Andy, Eli, Fronie, and Lizzie were her own form of God’s forgiveness.
And life was precious. There would always be imperfections, times of trouble and sorrow, but with the assurance of His love, anything could be overcome with His strength. Oba was a form of sorrow, of unending worry and fear she took to the Lord daily in prayer. She longed for his freedom from self, his unhappiness and despair changed into courage and love, but knew well she was powerless to provide it.
God alone held the key to his redemption.
May smiled to herself as she set a box of dishes on a stack of more boxes.
“May!”
“What?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Andy won’t be here for another hour. I have chicken and dumplings here on the stove, but it won’t be ready till lunchtime.”
Clara appeared, a vision of color in a flaming green dress, her white covering sliding around on her thick red hair, the tendrils loosening around her face as she kept up the frenetic pace of throwing things into boxes, running after Fronie and Lizzie to grab them up in her arms and tickle them till they giggled uncontrollably. The two girls adored their “Aunt Clara.”
When Andy drove up to the house with a pair of Belgian work horses, May was surprised to see Oba seated on the side, his crutches beside him. His face was reddened by the cold, his blond hair disheveled, his coat opened as if the cold was merely laughable. And he was talking to Andy, waving his hands, animated.
When had he left the house? Had Clara’s presence angered him to the point he’d swung himself clear over to the farm on crutches?
She crooked a finger to Clara, who was lifting the lid of the chicken and dumplings, pointed wordlessly, and watched as Clara caught sight of Oba. It was only later that she wondered at the look on her face.
CHAPTER 6
BY THE TIME THE COLD WINDS BLEW IN EARNEST, WITH THE underlying threat of a real snowstorm, Andy and May were settled into the large white farmhouse where he had been born and raised. His parents simply traded homes with them, settling into the brick ranch house with a happy sigh of rest and contentment. Their work of raising a large brood of children, working the soil and milking cows as the seasons turned into years, was behind them now, the future of resting on their laurels into the golden sunset years before them.
Ketty had never been happier, her rotund form moving with surprising speed from room to room, exclaiming at the perfect size for three people (Simon and herself, of course, plus their youngest son, still at home), and how she would enjoy her coffee and raisin cookies after doing laundry. Simon smiled indulgently at his wife, said she deserved every well-earned rest she could find.
May was a bit overwhelmed at the size of the house, the yard, and garden—everything. But she would love being closer to Andy as he worked, to be able to watch him come and go with a team of prancing Belgians, to help with the milking, working side by side with him, to be a true helpmeet in every sense of the word.
Oba felt completely unmoored, in a way he did not understand. His bedroom was on the second floor of the farmhouse, the stairs an unnavigated question mark, one he had never tried. He wanted to leave, to disappear from this well-ordered household. He knew he was a burden to those around him, but knew, too, he had no other options, the world outside an inhospitable place, one in which he would not survive.
It all narrowed down to one thing, which Eli recognized early on. He would have to get up those stairs and back down again.
“Uncle Oba, going down will be easy,” he offered.
Oba looked at his upturned face, gave him a small grin. “Sit down and slide, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Sure, but how will I get up the stairs?”
Eli put a finger to his lips, evaluating the stairs with wise eyes, then looked at the ever-present crutches. “It could be done.”
May smiled at Andy, and he gave her a broad wink. Eli seemed so much older so much of the time, showing an amazing ability to reason things out. He was a big help to Oba simply by his willingness to help; his charming, little-boy eagerness was an underlying mood booster to his spirits.
“Try the bottom step, the way you get up on the porch, then keep going.”
Oba looked at Eli, then at the stairs. “Who will catch me if I fall?”
“I will.” Then he opened his mouth as he howled with glee.
So it was on a light note that Oba placed his crutches on the bottom step, swung himself up, hesitated, and then took another laborious step. Nothing about it was easy, but he was determined, so with the audience at the bottom of the steps holding their breath, he kept on, one step at a time.
When he got to the top, everyone clapped their hands and shouted approval, Lizzie and Fronie dancing with delight.
Oba grinned, lowered himself, and said, “I’m coming down.”
And he did, sliding on the seat of his pants, sending the crutches in a haphazard slide before him. He bounced and slid his way to the bottom, where he sprawled awkwardly before lifting himself with the crutches.
There was a celebratory air at the supper table that night, amid the boxes and half-unpacked crates of dishes. The meal was simply a leftover casserole, an apple pie, and slices of bread with pear butter, but it tasted wonderful, with Oba in better spirits.
May felt as if she could conquer anything with Oba showing so much improvement. She washed the dishes quickly before following Andy to the barn. This was her first attempt at milking a cow since her days in Arkansas, but she hadn’t forgotten a thing and she was eager to show her husband the skill she had always possessed.
She opened the door to the cow stable, a wave of the accustomed odor of manure, hay, grain, and silage bringing an unexpected surge of anguish. Her breath came faster, her fists clenched as she braced herself for the rushing memories that washed over her.
She could almost feel Melvin lurking behind the post riddled by cobwebs, a dark sinister figure who tormented her with hissing promises. The quick stroke of his hands as she poured a bucket of warm frothy milk into galvanized cans, unable to turn and fight him off. And if she dared attempt it, there would be consequences known only to her. And to him.
She began to tremble. Quick tears sprang to her eyes. Telling herself she must be strong, she clenched and unclenched her fists and squared her shoulders as she moved to the milkhouse. The smell of milk cans, the cooled water containing the smell of mold and iron, the wet concrete floor, everything about the place reached out and threatened to choke her. She sagged against the cold stone wall, bent her head into her hands, and began a mixture of ragged breaths and hoarse sobs coupled with intermittent moaning.
Andy swung happily through the door to find his wife in such a state. He stopped in alarm before going to her, his strong denim-clad arms drawing her gently to him, holding her as if he couldn’t bear to hear the sounds from her throat.
“May, May. Tell me what’s wrong. Am I expecting too much of you to take on the farm? Shh. May.”
Great sounds of anguish rose in waves, sounds that could not be stopped. So he held her and prayed, his lips moving as he closed his eyes and allowed his own tears to seep from between the lids. With the depth of his love for May, these sounds were like a knife to his chest.
He stroked her back, told her he loved her, reminded her they could get through anything together. Finally, she took a deep shuddering breath, and strained against his arms as she searched for a handkerchief in her dress pocket. She shook her head back and forth before falling against him, her arms going about his waist in a viselike grip.
“Hold me, please hold me,” she whispered.
The story came in bits and pieces of mumbled remembering, the shame and self-blame a tangled skein of years of being treated in a manner so devastating to a young girl. Andy felt helpless as he was confronted by this puzzle of her past. There was nothing he could do to protect her from what had already happened.
“Did you ever hear how a sense of smell will bring back memories faster than any other sense?” he asked, tenderly.
“No.”
“I’ve heard it said.”
“It must be true.”
“Listen, May. If you would rather not milk, you don’t have to. I can always hire someone, and in a few years, Eli will be able to milk a cow.”
“No, no. I want to milk. I looked forward to showing you how good at it I am. I used to milk six cows, sometimes as many as eight.”
“I’m sure you’re very good.” His eyes searched her face, looking deep into her trusting gaze, before he lifted his hand to wipe away the traces of her tears. “You know you are safe now, right?”
She nodded, then raised her lips to his, clinging to him as he kissed her with all the gentle love he felt in his heart.
SHE POSITIONED THE milking stool into place, sat down by a cow, and bent her head against the soft, smooth flank, the stainless steel bucket held firmly beneath the udder. With swift, sure strokes, she pulled on the soft teats, with thick streams of rich milk hitting the bottom of the pail with a pinging sound. Her fingers were strong, the muscles in her arms supple, but the unaccustomed squeezing soon tired her out. But she kept milking with determination.
She jumped when Eli came flying into the cow stable, felt her irritation rise like bile in her throat. She stopped herself from jumping up and berating him thoroughly, the way she would have liked to.
She thought of Leviticus.
Where was he now? Romping through the cow stable in Arkansas, how much had he seen? Had the boys always been blind to their father’s incomprehensible behavior? She hoped fervently, hoped they had been far too young and innocent to notice. She swallowed back the rising flavor of guilt, of self-hatred. Had she truly done all she possibly could to avoid any overtures from Melvin? Would she be found innocent on the day of God’s judgment? A yawning hell of remembrance threatened to drag her into its fiery depth as she valiantly fought every wile of the devil. How could it possibly be fair, opening a door to be thrown off guard by the familiar odor of a lowly cow stable?
Her lips moved as she began to pray. She begged God to take away this thorn in her flesh, this shadow repeatedly covering the light of her happiness. She brought her thoughts into subjection by her prayers and finished milking the first cow before going on to the second. She realized this was her lot in life, God had allowed it. She could never undo what had been done, and would always have to remember to move away from the darkness of her years in Arkansas, into the circle of grace and forgiveness from the father of lights, the beginning and ending of her faith.
IN TIME, THE farmhouse became home. Oba thumped his awkward way up the steps each evening until he became quite adept at maneuvering his way up and down. Clara stayed away for a while, allowing them to settle in, before arriving in the middle of a fierce snowstorm about a week before Christmas, riding the sorrel mare with the long mane and wild-looking eyes, bundled up so only her eyes were visible between layers of scarves.
